


Cornflower Blues

by RowenaNie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Birth, Graphic Description, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Unexpected Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowenaNie/pseuds/RowenaNie
Summary: It is a surprise to Geralt that the babe he is birthing is a child and not a monster. Originally, he was surprised that it was not constipation.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 565





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Contains graphic descriptions of childbirth and Mpreg. Some gore and fluids are expected.

It began as a dull ache upon waking. The pain radiated from the muscles in his lower back. Possible he had slept badly. Possible it was because of the hard forest floor under the bedroll. Normally, his muscles didn’t throb even after spending more nights on the ground than he could count. 

The fire had also grown cold during the night.

Geralt groaned as he stumbled to his feet, straightened his back, while he observed Roach scraping the bark of a tree. First, he didn’t pay mind to the discomfort, he often suffered worse wounds.

The pains moved to his abdomen, however, when he buttoned the doublet over it. The witcher’s hand lingered on his back, questioning the source of the hurt.

The doublet was tight over his tender stomach. The witcher ignored it for now and secured the sword to its place at his back. His black leather armor with the silver was uncomfortable today. 

He contributed the soreness to the lack of proper nutrition. Stale bread and water would do that, if ingested alone for days it would induce constipation and belly pains.

He should have been hunting something else than monsters then, but only the contracted basilisk dwelled here. The pests roaming this land appeared to have gulped up all life.

The witcher groaned and stared at his bloated belly; rock hard and cramping. Geralt pressed a palm hard on the top of the painful swelling; before the muscles relaxed again. Even with his lost appetite; it would help with regular food.

The previous weeks had been meager for the witcher, and he was desperate for coin.

‘Shh, you wish for a night in a warm stable, don’t you, Roach?’ Geralt padded the horse. Roach recognized his discomfort and nuzzled his cheek.

Not long after mounting Roach, another wave of pain washed over his back, lingering for a moment in his stomach.

Hunger felt different, the witcher mused. And this was not hunger, even if it was weeks since he ate a good meal.

The day warmed, and the fresh spring-sun cast a glow through the fog into the dead forest. The trail of the basilisk weakened, and to ease the pain he let Roach stroll slower than the brisk pace of the previous day.

Geralt’s contract was on one thousand crowns; enough to buy elixirs and food and lodging.

Another wave of pain rolled over him. Not wincing, he pushed himself off the horse. The pull of his guts clarified that he needed to relieve himself in the forest; but with his empty stomach he doubted his bowels could produce anything. The area under his dick was tender at least, and riding was increasingly uncomfortable.

Geralt tethered Roach to a tree. The muscles in his stomach contracted painfully again. He pulled down his breeches and opened his belt for relief.

It didn’t work. The pains worsened. Leaning into a tree, the witcher gasped for air, trying to get momentum to relieve himself. Squatting and massaging his lower belly; his breathing was difficult.

He conceded with a painful gasp and pulled his breeches up again. Not bothering to buckle the belt. The pain waved over him again. Unfortunately, riding seemed as an impossibility.

‘I think we need to stay here for the time being.’ Roach didn’t reply. As he groaned and hunched over, waiting for a pause in the pain. This time the wave lasted for minutes, before he could stand upright again and pull out his bedroll.

With exhaustion, he removed the armor and the doublet. Groaning when he placed it next to him.

Rolling himself in his cloak; this atypical behavior seemed to puzzle the horse, even if the mare accepted it.

He wanted to sleep this away, but sleep eluded him.

It was day, but the foggy naked forest didn’t allow for the sun to come through. 

Apprehensive, he moved his hand inside his shirt, his belly formed into a firm hard rock under his fingers as the pain made it impossible to lie still. He trashed to his side, futilely attempting to relieve the pain. It was now clear that it was not improving.

If it was his bowels or something else that was wrong, it made the tender flesh under his scrotum emanate with sharp pains.

For a moment, Geralt was almost certain he would vomit. Before he willed it away. Even if it was more from lack of content in his stomach than actual will.

The pressure on his pelvis increased painfully, and he gasped as he sat up, hunching over his bent knees. The skin on his scrotum ripped as he suppressed a half pained grunt.

Pushing his knees apart with his hands to create more space. Blood had been seeping through his breeches onto his bedroll. Pooling around him.

His belly cramped to a painful knot; he gasped to inhale. This was ripping him apart. For moments he believed it might be a curse, but he knew that this was something else.

At least, he was almost certain that it wasn’t constipation or hunger at this point. Something inside him screwed into his pelvis, grinding, moving around.

More blood seeped through his breeches. He pushed the breeches down once more. Not caring that he was still on his bedroll.

Groaning, pushing a finger towards the skin under his private parts. The skin pulled painfully taunt, ripping in the middle.

The tender meat there was swollen, blood seeping from it. The pain began again, beginning with a muscle ache in his back, rolling over, and within seconds the excruciating pain rippled through his entire body. Geralt gritted his teeth, trying to breathe out, but he kept holding in his breath.

If just Dandelion was here. But Geralt knew that their paths would not likely cross again.

Something inside him shifted again, his skin made a nauseating sound as it ripped open. He began panting as the pain rolled off, and sat upwards again, planting a hand on each knee.

It felt like he needed to relieve his bowels again, but he couldn’t get up. The blood soiled the bedrolls. This time the break was almost non-existing, and the pain rolled over him anew, and he gasped for air.

Something inside him gave away, and a sudden rush of clear liquid flushed out of the tear between his legs.

Growling. For seconds he believed it was coming from his bowels, before he realized the true source. The watery substance wetted the bedroll.

For seconds, as the pain decreased, Geralt wondered what the smell was. It was familiar, yet foreign. Before he realized that, it was amniotic fluid. As soon as the thought was in his mind, he couldn’t push it away.

Something or someone was still inside him. With both hands, he felt on top of his abdominal muscles. Feeling for something foreign. The slight swell, as he had contributed to constipation, went all the way from his rib cage to his pelvis.

It had not been visible. Suddenly he realized that the change had been coming gradually for months. His strong muscles had concealed it.   
Whether it would be a creature or monster or something else, that would push out of him, he didn’t know. But something would come out. That was certain.

He didn’t have long to contemplate before the pain forced him to focus on breathing out again. He needed to push, pulling his knees from each other, groaning, pushing, but nothing happened, as the pain released him for a few seconds. He panted and his belly had tensed up again. Before another contraction rolled over him. Geralt’s pain lessened as he pushed, but as before nothing produced.

Whatever was in his belly couldn’t be big, so why was it then this difficult to get it out? His stomach appeared bloated, but not like a woman’s near labor. He didn’t have much time before the next contraction rolled over him, leaving him panting, unable to have enough strength to sit up, he leaned back. Panting, pushing his legs apart.

Struggling to expel whatever was stuck inside him.

Feeling with a finger at the gash where the fluid gushed out, but touched nothing but wetness. Rolling to his side, struggled to get up, his strength weakened. In the break before the next birthing pain hit him, he got to a squatting position.

He removed strains of dirty white hair that had clung to his sweaty face, before the next contraction rolled over him, almost forcing him onto the soaked bedroll again.

Geralt hoped that the monster he hunted wouldn’t get the whiff of his blood, finding him bloody in labor with his breeches down. He only had seconds as the urge to push overwhelmed him again.

If a monster should come out of him, he also needed to be ready, apprehensive, he eyed the silver sword. Frustrated, he pushed again. Still, he could only feel his own flesh, and not a trace of any creature exiting.

He could no longer stand, falling to his back, panting, tired, sweating. He had extraordinary strength, yes. But the weeks of lack of food, of the fog, had tired him.

Desperate to not be alone. He wished in vain that Dandelion was there with him. For the bard to hold him. Run his soft hands through his hair. Caress his lower back where the pain was worst.

But if it was a monster that was forcing its way out of him, it was better that Geralt was there alone to deal with it swiftly.

He pushed again to no avail, struggling to hold his legs apart. The pain rippled through him. Staying coherent through this whole ordeal seemed impossible as something finally pushed through, tearing his skin.  
Prematurely, Geralt was relieved that the ordeal was soon over. It was not; when the contraction stopped, the child slipped back in.

Roach scraped her hoof nervously on the tree. As the witcher grumbled in frustration.

Struggling, Geralt finally sat up again, pushing everything he could. His skin made a sickening noise as it tore apart. Touching for a moment. Something slick was protruding between his legs. He pushed again, feeling it slide out of him.

Desperately, Geralt struggled to get to his silver sword. Apprehensive at the monstrosity he had produced. He sat up, umbilical cord still dangling out of him. Thick and purple. A tiny infant, wet and covered in sticky liquid, was on the bloodied bedroll between his legs.

For a time, Geralt believed the babe was dead. His child; an all too human child. Suddenly, panicking, instead of striking a monster down, he slit the cord quickly with his sword, and carried the wet cold infant to his overheated chest. Trying as best he could. A calloused palm under her neck, cradling the tiny creature; a girl.

Geralt put the lifeless infant under his unbuttoned shirt. The little pink face pressed to his warm chest. Limp body with a blue, pinkish pattern. Her tiny arm and legs hung lifeless like the small bluish stump from her navel.

It startled him when the child finally moved. He had feared that she was dead. The witcher stared at the girl, unable to devise a course of action. The tiny wrinkled face had shut eyes, and a mouth that kept opening and closing searching for something.

Far simpler, if she had been a monster.

His belly contracted again. Not as rough as before, dull pain still lingered. Blood ran out, and he needed to push again.

The afterbirth, he realized, followed in a gush of blood.

Gasping, as it passed the ripped flesh under his scrotum and the tingling blood.

The baby had a tuft of hair; fluids stuck it to her head. Possible the hair was white, he hoped not.

Carefully, Geralt rolled her gently to face inwards towards his heated chest. His breasts looked as they always had. Hardened by muscles and covered with thin white hair. The girl searched for a tit to suck.

‘I fear that you might get very little from me.’ Her mouth was fumbling around for something, anyway. Finding the target. The naked infant closed her mouth around a pale nibble, suckling on him. Geralt didn’t realize that fluid came out before her mouth filled and sticky clear liquid wetted his chest.

His stomach was aching with thirst. His throat was dry.

The baby’s fists buried itself in a mop of hair, fascinated Geralt couldn’t help but trail an index finger across her cheek. She was no monster, but how she had been inside him was still a puzzle.

His tenderness towards the little girl transformed. Affection, protectiveness, love. It saddened him. Had she been a monster, he would not be conflicted thus.

Children rarely survived.

Beasts like him was not granted such treasures.

Witchers couldn’t father children. There was a reason for that. But apparently they could mother them.

Geralt allowed the infant to suck at his breast until content. If it died, he would like to know that the tiny belly was at least full.

Good, that he could hold himself and her warm enough. Drenched in blood and fluids as they both were.

He tied the infant to his chest with a piece of linen. Still naked and caked in remains from the birth.

Struggling to clean up and bury the afterbirth and take on clothes with the infant tied under his shirt.

‘I don’t think, I can ride, Roach,’ Geralt sighed, his pelvis felt ripped apart, and the wound kept wetting his breeches with blood.

Geralt ambled, pained, as he methodically packed the dirty items, holding a hand under the linen, which he had wrapped around the newborn. Observing her; she had ceased eating.

Finally, he saw the babe’s cornflower blue eyes. Staring up at him from the still narrow slits. 

And Geralt knew who had fathered his baby.

‘Fuck.’


	2. Company

It was Roach who Jaskier observed first. The mare was tied to a stub near a brook. Next to the horse, a fire had turned to ember. It was likely the remnants of the witcher’s camp.

The bard, Jaskier, had not been searching for Geralt, not exactly; okay, possibly he had, even if loath to admit it. And despite that he had not found Geralt yet, unexpected butterflies flickered in his belly upon sight of the witcher’s horse.

The presence of the wench surprised him, though; she was young, no more then late teens. Wearing gray peasant clothes, she had mouse-brown hair and mushy red cheeks; lovely only because of youth. In not far a future, she would be plain. 

She neither looked involved with the camp nor comfortable to be there; the woman stood some distance to Roach. Roach neighed in protest at Jaskier’s intrusion.

‘Best greetings to you, madam,’ Jaskier bowed, with all his grace, hoping that she knew where the horse’s owner was.

Her small pigeon eyes judged him.

‘What do you want?’ She demanded unabashedly.

It was then that the bard identified the swaddled babe. Sleeping, it appeared. Initially, Jaskier reckoned it was a doll. Tiny in the wench’s arms; it was pale and silent.

‘May I inquire, madam, if you could tell me the whereabouts of the owner of this horse?’

The woman pouted her mouth into a straight line as Jaskier stepped towards her.

‘Ya know the witcher?’ She challenged.  
‘Yes, he is a friend of mine.’ Not realizing whether being friends with Geralt would make her more or less likely to comply.

Why Geralt would have a young girl and a babe in his camp mystified him. Possible she had been robbing Geralt, while he was off slaying monsters.

The girl glanced backwards into the woods.

‘Is it your baby?’ Jaskier asked. And what a stupid question; it was obviously her baby. 

‘It’s the witcher’s.’

Disgusted, she extended the infant towards Jaskier. So surprised at her gesture, he accepted the sleeping infant. Having to support the limp head with a palm, it was not a doll. Frail and wrapped up in its swaddle.

On top of its crown was a tuff of white hair.

With Jaskier’s limited knowledge of infants, he guessed that the swaddled babe was only a few days old.

As soon as the wench passed the child, however, she swung around and ran.

‘Wait, my good woman, please.’ But Jaskier cried in vain; before she disappeared into the fog.

Jaskier throat constricted knowing that Geralt had replaced him so soon after their parting. It was bad enough with Yennefer. But at least the witcher hadn’t gotten a babe with the mage.

The bard suppressed the jealousy boiling in his throat; succeeded by fear of what the witcher would do when he found Jaskier alone in his camp without the babe’s mother. If he was fortuitous, the wench had escaped to find Geralt.

Looking at the sleeping baby. So far it didn’t give much fuss. But he didn’t even know if it was a girl or a boy, much less its name.

He sank down next to the embering fire, looking at the babe. It had short white hair. He couldn’t help but be tender towards it. Curbing his resentment and trying to suppress the knowledge what its existence meant; that Geralt had moved to another after they separated.

‘You are a curious little fellow?’ Jaskier cooed, holding it and touching the small cheek with the palm of his hand. He believed that Geralt was sterile, and the contrary evidence in this child made him unhappy. It made him feel deceived.

Jaskier had assumed, hoped even, that the witcher wouldn’t have taken a new lover. It had evidently not been weeks since they parted before Geralt had sought comfort elsewhere.

He shouldn’t be jealous towards a babe. He knew it wasn’t the babe’s fault.

‘Dandelion?’

Jaskier had been too absorbed that he hadn’t heard the witcher approach.

Geralt pushed dirty hair strands out of his face. He wore his black leather armor, and adrenaline fueled by a battle. The witcher flickered his eyes from the babe to Jaskier.

He had dragged the remains of a basilisk into the camp. Letting go of the creature, their eyes met for a second. Sweat had made lines in the dirt on his face.

Pulling off his armor; his eyes fixed on the bard and the babe. But the witcher didn’t make any movement towards picking the child up from Jaskier’s lap. Looking more tired and thin than usual, the witcher’s muscles were tense after a fight.

Geralt put some extra logs on the fire, poking into the ember to lit the new wood. Pretending that Jaskier and the babe were not there, and he didn’t question where the mother had gone.

‘Does she need changing?’ Geralt asked hoarsely. It was such an unusual question that it threw Jaskier off guard.

‘Excuse me? I do not believe I quite understood the question.’ 

‘The babe,’ Geralt clarified, ‘does she need changing her clothes?’ Jaskier looked down, confused to the swaddled and still sleeping baby in his lap.

‘Oh, I do not think so.’ Afraid that since he was the one that had made the mother run, Geralt might expect him to do it.

Geralt shrugged and began cleaning his sword; meticulously as always. The severed remains of the basilisk lay next to him. He still didn’t mind the baby in Jaskier’s lap, when the baby began fussing with closed eyes; she had a pained expression on her tiny face.

Probably going to cry rather loudly in a moment.

‘Eh, Geralt?’ Jaskier tried to get the witcher’s attention, Geralt raised his head observing the babe.

‘She might be hungry,’ Geralt stated without paying much attention. ‘If you are certain that she doesn’t need changing.’ 

Jaskier wasn’t certain about anything at this point.

‘I see.’ The babe began crying. Geralt was putting his sword in its holster, watching them from the corner of his eyes.

Finally, paying mind to Jaskier.

‘She is yours,’ Geralt said, and cradled the infant up into his arms. It made the fussing stop.

‘I have never seen that woman in my life,’ Jaskier said affronted.

Geralt rolled his eyes, ‘You have little sense of smell, she needs to be changed.’ Jaskier wanted to comment that with the odors of the camp, Geralt’s inclusive, the babe’s smell was the least problem.

He wisely decided not to.

Curious, Jaskier looked at the witcher untying the babe. The cold air made her wince even when close to the fire. It looked like a girl. She twisted in the soiled cloth. A red stump still protruded from her navel. 

As if she was one of his weapons, the witcher cleaned her with the water from the pot on the flames. Dipping it in the heated water, waiting until it cooled down before wiping her. Ending with pulling out a fresh strip of linen and swaddling her again; the linen the witcher had for bandaging wounds.

Last he dumped the soiled swaddle in the boiling water. Before pulling it up, twisting it and hanging it to dry over the flames.

‘I thought witchers couldn’t father children?’

‘I am not her father.’

Maybe the wench hadn’t been the mother either. Childbirth was dangerous.

‘I have meat and bread. But I do not suppose we can feed that to a babe?’ Jaskier sighed. They needed a wet-nurse.

Geralt looked amused.

‘No, but if you shared it with me, I’ll repay you when I’m payed the reward.’ 

Geralt looked worn and thin. The witcher must have been starving since asking for Jaskier’s food. This was not his style.

Jaskier forced himself to concentrate for a moment. Geralt opened his shirt, sliding the baby inside for warmth. The cold spring evening and the thin linen was not enough to hold a babe comfortable.

Geralt sat down next to the fire, pulling his cloak around then. Hiding the infant from view.

It was getting dark in the pale light of the fire, Jaskier gazed at the dark rings under Geralt’s eyes. His dirty white hair clung to his face, sweaty despite of the cold.

The witcher rolled to his side. The babe still hidden in his cloak, protected.

‘Are you wounded?’ Jaskier asked, eying the slain monster. Geralt mumbled something akin to no. And despite how hungry the witcher appeared, he ate little more than a bite. He seemed thirsty though, drinking large gulps of water from his cup.

After supper, the witcher rolled his big arms around the tiny infant still nestled in his shirt.

Jaskier would have reckoned with his closed eyes, the witcher was asleep; if it wasn’t for his palm that still caressed the tiny head.

Geralt must have loved the mother, the bard mused, he looked pained; it made Jaskier sad that he had missed this part of Geralt’s life. The witcher might tolerate Jaskier’s presence in the camp, but the bard was still an outsider.

It didn’t take long before the babe began whimpering again. Reacting fast to her discomfort, Geralt pushed an elbow in the ground and scanned her. 

So he hadn’t been asleep.

‘Does she need changing again?’ Jaskier stared at the extra swaddle currently drying.

‘No, this time she is just hungry,’ Geralt concluded. Jaskier panicked. 

‘Geralt, we should have gone to town instead of sleeping, now it is too late, and she will cry all night... possibly die from hunger... and... and, Geralt, what are you doing?’

‘Feeding her.’

The child buried her face in the hair on Geralt’s exposed chest. The witcher leaned back; while he removed his shirt from his shoulder. The infant had its mouth closed around a nipple while cradled in the crook of the witcher’s arm. A red and impossible tiny hand tangled into the hair on his breast. 

It left the upper part of her head exposed just above the witcher’s toned muscle. Revealing short white hair, unnatural on an infant.

Geralt half-closed his eyes as he allowed the infant to eat.

Jaskier witnessed the display through the orange flames of the fire. He tried to say something, but uncharacteristically lost for words, he closed his mouth again.

‘Is it a curse?’ He finally asked.

‘No.’

‘I believe it is unusual then, a father cannot...’

Geralt’s yellow eyes tuned in on him.

‘I told you, I am not her father.’

Jaskier wasn’t sure he was supposed to know what that meant.

He observed the pair across the fire. Hating himself for being jealous of a baby. The bard had not seen Geralt be this gentle with anyone else.

‘Dandelion?’ Geralt groaned. He still has half-closed eyes. Jaskier flew up, ready to do anything the witcher asked of him.

‘Could you get me something to drink?’

The witcher sounded tired, incoherent. Jaskier filled water with shaking hands in the witcher’s cup and crouched next to him.

For a moment Jaskier was certain the witcher had fallen asleep again. His face glistered with sweat. The baby ceased to eat, nuzzling into Geralt’s warmth. A drop of white milk ran down her chin.

Jaskier slit his fingers behind Geralt’s neck; pushing tangled white hair away. His skin was scorching.

‘Geralt,’ he lifted the witcher’s head, tilting the cup to his lips. Allowing the other man to drink.

The witcher was sick, injured; he carried the faint scent of a wound on the onset of festering. Touching Geralt’s forehead with the back of his hand. Sticky, dirty and burning.

‘Are you sick?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is not melancholy over a lost love, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Is it birthing fever?’

‘Yes.’

Geralt opened his eyes, coughing. Nuzzling the baby even closer. He was ashen pale, still cuddling the infant.

‘It is getting worse?’

Geralt nodded.

‘Is that why your breeches are soaked in blood?’

‘Yes.’

Jaskier sickened at the thought. He wanted to inquire after details, but Geralt was loosing consciousness. The witcher had a resilience against injuries, but whatever the child had inflicted might be irreparable.

Jaskier had studied Geralt’s groin on multiple occasions, and he had yet to see anywhere where a babe could exit.

Stroking the others’s wet forehead, Jaskier traced his lips to the witcher’s.

They needed help.

***

Jaskier had tied Roach behind the cart, now trudging. They were traveling to the temple of Melitele on the main road. Jaskier had payed a peasant with a tumbrel to take them there. Geralt had barely noticed, else he might have protested leaving the basilisk carcass behind. 

‘Eh, Geralt, have you by any chance noticed that she has the same eye-color as me?’ Jaskier inquired, while allowing the infant girl to curl her little hand around his index finger. The girl stared up at the bard, holding her in his arms.

Geralt was lying on the tumbrel with still closed eyes. Jaskier had been in doubt whether the witcher was conscious.

‘I told you she is yours.’


	3. Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains explicit descriptions of blood and gore, beware.

It was not til late afternoon before they reached the temple of Melitele. Geralt woke up when the cart rolled through the stone gate into the temple yard. The harsh spring sun burnt his eyes; and he winced and angled his face away before his pupils turned into splits.

Geralt was certain the girl had been crying. But in his fevered state he couldn’t coherently recall when. She was dead silent now.

Sweat had drenched his linen shirt, and dirt and fluids had colored it dark. Several strands of dirty white hair had come loose and stuck to his cheeks.

He tried to focus his frenzied eyes on Dandelion. The poet looked tense, curled up against the wooden side of the cart, and clutched the tiny infant in his arms. Dandelion’s expensive purple jerkin was stained with baby vomit.

Was Dandelion a part of his fevered delirium? The witcher wondered. The poet’s timing seemed too opportune. He had taken care of the babe’s need when Geralt was unable. The witcher was certain that the bard had even changed her swaddle.

The driver was a rugged man in rustic clothes, who appeared to have several children. ‘`tis ain’t how it’s done,’ he had mumbled, not bothering to leave the narrow seat nor be useful enough to show a better way of doing it. 

As the cart came to a full stop, Dandelion leaned forward and slid from the tailgate.

Trying to follow, Geralt pushed himself up on his elbow. Struggling, gasping, pulling at the straw on the wooden floor of the wagon. Conceding as he slumped back into the hay.

He struggled with the tenderness in his belly, and the weakness of his muscles. Tainted blood seeped through his breeches with a pungent smell of infection while he rolled to his side.

Roach scraped in the muddy ground of the temple yard, neighing impatiently after being tethered behind the cart.

Geralt’s stomach was swollen and infected. And as he crawled out of the tumbrel, more heated blood rushed out, making him lightheaded and nauseous.

‘Geralt,’ Dandelion exclaimed, turning back to the wagon. He still carried the tiny girl.

The bard looked like he lacked an extra arm to hold the baby. Trying simultaneously to both support her head and shield her from the sun. Only visible was the strange white hair on top of her crown, and a minute red ear.

Geralt supported himself to the wobbly side of the cart while he struggled to take a few unsteady steps in the muck towards the bard and the child.

Before the sky began turning, and Dandelion and the tumbrel moved further and further away. The mud and Roach also span, and the world turned black with a loud thump.

***

It was late evening, or so Geralt reckoned, when he woke up again. The chamber was ripe with the smell of herbs. He was wearing a loose shirt and black linen trousers. Bare feet.

Dandelion and Mother Nenneke argued, Geralt realized.

‘But he is a witcher. Those elixirs are for womenfolks.’

‘Yes, but I am not going to question how you managed to put that child in his belly, and you are not going to question what I do to save him.’ Nenneke was angry.

‘But you must know that I could compose ballads of how I...’

‘I don’t want your bawdy songs here.’

‘But you affront me, madam, I only compose poems de Amor in that direction.’

‘You have not improved, I have heard your ballads, most of them are bawdy.’

‘Madam,’ Dandelion faked outrage. The bard wore a clean shirt and no jerkin.

‘Stick your poetry to monster killings and lion cubs...’

Geralt tried to open his eyes. Passively, he observed the exchange. Not having the strength to interact with the conversation.

‘Geralt,’ Dandelion exclaimed as he noticed that the witcher was awake. Nenneke scrutinized him. His muscles were stiff, and it was impossible to move. Someone had removed his clothes and washed him though. 

There was a whimpering note of a child coming from the bundle in mother Nenneke’s arms. It was a low sound, too low, lacking vigor. Nenneke handed her to Dandelion while supporting her head and back. The troubadour accepted her full focused.

The abbess sat down on the bed next to Geralt, pursing her lips. She had reproach burned into her face.

Nenneke sighed, and unbuttoned his shirt, while she shook her head. She placed a warm palm softly on top of his stomach. Moving her hand across his abs to his lower belly, Geralt winced from the pain as she pressed down on both sides.

‘You have lost too much blood and your abdomen is infected,’ Nenneke said, letting go. She still looked like it was his fault.

‘You should have come here before.’ That much was obvious. Feeling nauseous, he curled into a fetal position as soon as Nenneke removed her hands.

The abbess stood up and turned her attention to Dandelion, who was walking around the room with the infant and shooting worried glances towards Geralt.

‘Is he supposed to bleed that much?’ Dandelion held the infant’s head in place with one hand while bouncing her.

Every inch of Geralt’s skin burned; he was sweaty and too cold. Only when Dandelion mentioned it did he identify the pool of blood under him.

Nenneke shook her head.

‘It should have been decreasing by now, make sure he doesn’t move too much.’ 

‘Eh, I am not sure that is possible.’

Mother Nenneke scuffed at him in reply before leaving.

Uncertain how the bard had found him in the forest. Harsh words uttered by him, not the bard, him. Before he had known he had their child in his belly.

Not that the child could change the words he had uttered.

An overwhelming dull pain in the lower parts of his stomach followed those thoughts.  
***

The witcher woke up for a second time with the infant next to him on the bed. Dandelion played undistinguished notes on his lute from a corner of the room.

The babe was lightly swaddled in lanolin heavy wool and linen. 

Proper swaddling, not the rags he had used in the forest. Soft and clean and comfortable. Her cheeks and lips were rosy and while not fully in control of her tiny fists, she waved one towards him.

Geralt lifted his own hand, sluggish, and stroked her fingers with his thumb. Silently communicating with his daughter. Her hand knotted, and she looked less scrawny now than when she was just born.

The peace lasted only a moment before she began whimpering, her eyes clenched together in pain.

Dandelion leaned over her and scooped his hands in to support her fragile neck before lifting her away. The bard pressed her to his shoulder, not noticing that the witcher’s eyes followed him.

Geralt sat up, fighting the unwillingness of his muscles; overcome by the ache to touch her. Pained by separation. His upper body was glistering with sweat; and his chest was unfamiliarly taut, even if it wasn’t visibly altered.

Dandelion lifted his head from the babe and briefly observed Geralt groaning around on the bed.

‘You shouldn’t strain yourself, I really have everything under control.’ The bard even looked unconvinced himself, ‘well almost,’ he added.

‘Give me the babe.’ It came out harsher than expected.

‘Why?’

‘She is hungry,’ Geralt groaned.

‘Oh.’

Dandelion gave in as the wailing increased in intensity, and he placed the baby in Geralt’s arms.

The witcher tried to hold her up to his chest, but fever and infection had weakened his arms. Noticing, Dandelion sank down next to him, and placed his left arm around Geralt to support the infant’s head.

Geralt winced at the soreness of his nipple as the babe latched her mouth to it and sucked. The girl closed her eyes and drank, relieved.

Geralt’s upper torso shook with the cool air. He was thirsty and tired, and his stomach started hurting again. It was a dull, tender pain, which lingered in his lower belly. 

Dandelion’s warm body supported him firmly. The witcher slumped backwards into the other. The poet had a pleasant smell of soap, and Geralt was self-conscious that he had only been washed superficially and reeked of potions. Dandelion, however, just held him and placed a soft kiss on his scarred shoulder, stroking white hair aside.

Before dizziness overcame him again, Dandelion scooped the girl into his arms and allowed the witcher to curl back in the bed. 

Finally, a woolen blanket was tucked in to cover him.

***

When Geralt woke up, he was alone with a healer. His fever had dropped, and someone had changed his clothes and bedding during the night. Embarrassingly, they had also cleaned him between his legs.

His hair was tied up, and at least partly washed. Instead of the sweaty dirty strands, it was put together in the neck, and he wore a clean linen shirt.

‘Lay back, you’ll begin to bleed again,’ she said, and unhindered pushed him and removed the blanket exposing his neither regions.

‘The babe?’ Geralt asked hoarsely. Throat too dry to talk more. Afraid that the infant’s absence could only mean one thing. That she was dead.

Tears, which wasn’t possible, formed in the corners of his eyes.

The healer forced his legs apart. Feeling self-conscious as she scrutinized him; he tried in vain to resist her. 

‘I am just going to wash you,’ she explained.

‘The babe,’ Geralt demanded, ‘Is she dead?’  
‘I don’t know.’

Geralt studied the healer’s face, before he was satisfied. He had a vague memory that Dandelion had been with him; but possible it was part of his fever frenzy.

He didn’t want it to be. 

The witcher slit a hand into his shirt, letting a finger caress over the wolf medallion. The cold metal was not vibrating. There was no danger. 

But his daughter was gone. Certainty that she was dead seeped into his mind.

Geralt forced himself up, ignored the sting and pain from his abdomen and between his legs. The sense of infection. Gasping. Brown blood tingled down his leg.

Someone had put a pair of breeches next to the bed.

Struggling to get dressed. His body refused to cooperate and his boots were gone, and he didn’t like pulling more over tender belly than the thin linen shirt.

Ignoring the burning sense in his stomach, and that his breeches were slowly getting soaked.

Geralt needed to know that the little girl was taken care of, even if dead. He needed to feel her in his arms, before they could bury her or burn her or do whatever they did to deceased children.

His head hurt and his throat was dry, staggering past the scared healer into the yard, Nenneke would know where his daughter was.

Ignoring that, the corner of his vision blurred as he struggled out into the morning air.

A group of young recruits stood in a circle, their backs turned. Realizing that it was the troubadour in the middle.

‘Dandelion?’ Geralt whispered. That was impossible, he knew. The fever clogged his mind, and it conjured up images of the bard.

The poet stood up, and the women dispersed. 

Except for one, a young and pretty girl with black hair. She smiled to the poet, while she held a slim white hand onto the bundle on Dandelion’s arm.

It was the baby, Geralt knew what it was, moments, fractions of a second, before he collapsed again clutching his cramping stomach.

And heard a desperate cry from Dandelion.

***

Dandelion was flirting with the young novice again, and with the way she leaned into the bard, it appeared she was not assiduously decided on remaining a virgin.

Geralt only heard parts of the conversation, but her easy manner gave him a lump in the throat. Finally, she beamed at the poet and slid out of the door.

‘Geralt,’ Dandelion stared surprised at him, ‘I am so glad you are awake again, no, no, don’t get up.’

‘What happened to the basilisk?’ He groaned.  
‘Eh, Geralt, the basilisk? Dead, I think, it looked dead to me last I saw it.’

The witcher was almost certain that he had slain the monster. Pierced it with his sword. He needed at least the head to get his reward.

The contract that was so essential for buying food for himself, and Roach and for proper bedding, sheepskin, swaddling cloths, and lodging for his daughter.

The coin was even more important now. He had use linen rags as swaddles, and the babe had seemed too cold.

‘Where is it?’ Geralt asked tired, he needed to get the basilisk.  
‘Eh, where you left it, I think?’

‘Where I left it, really?’ He didn’t have time for Dandelion’s theatrics.  
‘Because I had much of a choice?’ The witcher added sardonically.

Dandelion looked hurt more by the tone than the words.

‘I needed that reward,’ Geralt growled. ‘Why d’you leave it?’

‘Well, I didn’t have a place to put it, it certainly didn’t have a handy size.’

‘I only needed the head.’

The little girl began whimpering, twisting in her swaddle. Her eyes clenched in discomfort.

Dandelion extended his arms to pick her up. Suddenly, Geralt didn’t want anyone else to touch his daughter; he pulled out the iron sword, rolling the handle into his hand.

‘I am only telling you once,’ the witcher warned, pointing with the tip of his sword at Dandelion’s throat.

The bard winced, even if the point hadn’t touched skin

‘Leave,’ the witcher growled, still shirtless. Dandelion appeared to hesitate for a moment. His eyes moved as the only thing in his face, glancing at the crying babe. Before withdrawing. And running.

As the door closed, the weapon slipped out of the witcher’s hand, landing on the stone floor with a clang.

Carefully pulling hands around the infant, pressing her towards his chest. He sank to down with the child cradled in his arms.

Tears ran down his cheeks. Self-loathing rolled over him as he held the girl, now wailing. 

He lifted her mouth to his nipple. For a fraction of a second, she closed her lips around it. Before she turned her face in disgust. Twisting, clenching her tiny fists, and began weeping again.

Geralt trailed a palm over her frail head. He too was crying. Not being able to make her eat or be quiet.

Impossible for him, in a land where there wasn’t much work for witchers to keep her fed and clothed.

Now she rejected eating from him. He shouldn’t have chased Dandelion away. She hadn’t cried when he was there. The ache in his belly was getting worse from sitting on the freezing stone floor, soreness from the wound between his legs that so obviously still was infected.

He pushed himself up, supporting the girl’s head. The simple effort in standing up was painful. He staggered back to the bed. Hoping that Dandelion would return.

But he didn’t.

The girl kept crying; he closed his arm around her. Feeling bad that he was not feeding her and making sure that she was safe.

The young novice returned, though. Looking at the display. Geralt was too weak to struggle as the woman pulled the infant out of his arms to change the swaddle.

‘She is probably hungry, do you need help with nursing her?’

He did.

‘No.’ Geralt said, accepting the child again. She kept not sucking. The novice pushed the infant upwards.  
‘Here, she is too low to get a grip,’ she explained.

He was relieved that the babe finally latched on and drank. Cradling her as the tension in his chest eased. Muscles relaxing.

Was it possible to care for his daughter, when he had no coin? The nomadic life of a witcher suited babes little.

The tiny girl; his stomach knotted painfully at the thought of her. Physical pain from the knowledge that he would be the reason of her demise. Afraid he could not hold her alive and fed. 

And he had to insult Dandelion again. Who had brought him to a safe place when he had needed it? 

Uncertain, he was strong enough for the failure when she would eventually die. Gently wiping the remaining milk of her chin. She smacked her lips. 

‘Should I take her?’ The novice interrupted.

‘No!’ The witcher said.

The novice nodded and fled as he sank back down in the bed. Letting the sleeping infant rest on his naked chest. She unconsciously moved her tiny hands across the scar there.

Geralt shivered with cold and loneliness. Everyone he loved got hurt.

Maybe it was for the best if Dandelion didn’t return.


	4. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for comments and kudos.
> 
> Stay home and stay safe.

Jaskier decided on his trip for Geralt’s contract that in hindsight, collecting the basilisk was a debacle.

Both in getting there fast, as he was on foot and getting the beast back to town. A decomposing basilisk was both heavier and more permeable than expected. Of course, he could have severed the head if he had brought a sword.

Then there was the basilisk skin, Jaskier had no idea how to skin a creature like that, hopefully Geralt would forgive him.

The troubadour had traveled for three days. Now he was reeking, tired, and his doublet was stained with splashes of basilisk blood. Where the fluids had dried, it had made tiny holes from the corrosiveness.

The temple novice at the entrance greeted him with indifference.

Jaskier had been yearning for returning for days, and now that Geralt was finally so close, a lump formed in his throat. When he had left, infection had rippled the witcher. What if his condition had deteriorated, what if Geralt had died in his absence?

Even if the witcher was alive, it was not a certainty Geralt would welcome him. He had been so enraged, and if he was unlucky, the witcher was armed.

Jaskier’s hands were sweaty from nerves and exhaustion.

‘You have returned, I had hoped we would have seen the last of you,’ Nenneke huffed as she greeted him in the temple yard.

‘He doesn’t want to talk to anyone,’ Nenneke added in a consolidating tone.

‘Could you tell him I have his reward?’ Jaskier asked, hopefully it would be enough for Geralt to not turn him away immediately.

***

Jaskier was uncertain what he had expected to find, but Geralt curled up in bed, staring into the side of the wall, was not it. He glanced at the baby girl who was awake, looking up with her big blue eyes.

‘Dandelion?’ Geralt rasped.

Jaskier cast a worried glance towards the sword. It was inches from Geralt’s fingertips.

The witcher’s upper body was drenched in sweat, and his white hair clung to his face in lumps.

‘I didn’t think you’d come back.’

It also surprised Jaskier that he returned alive, as the quest had been more perilous than expected.

He had first had to transport a stinking carcass, in some unpleasant state of decomposing. The decaying basilisk had leaked corrosive fluids all over him. Then the alderman had been close to challenge his right to the reward, and afterwards the villages had tried to block his way out with rock throwing.

‘Eh, yeah, eh I am sorry it took a little longer, Basilisks are heavier than…’ 

Jaskier stopped, why was he lecturing a witcher on monsters? That was detrimental to make Geralt less annoyed.

Geralt didn’t flinch, he fortunately also didn’t move his outstretched fingers toward the sword.

‘I got you your reward,’ Jaskier said, and placed the pouch with the nine hundred crowns next to the sword on the bed.

‘It is only nine hundred, because I evidently don’t look like a witcher so I… eh… had to give a discount.’

‘I tried a ballad to get those last hundreds, but apparently that village doesn’t really appreciate fine musical performances.’

He chose not to mention the monster’s skin, which he hadn’t tried to cash in.

The witcher grunted with his eyes half closed. And surprisingly, he didn’t appear to care that much it was only nine hundred Jaskier had received for the contract.

Jaskier sat down on the edge of the bed while he inspected Geralt. The stench of infection was gone from the room, only the heavy odor of herbs and lanolin lingered. He hoped that it meant that Geralt’s health had improved. At least he wasn’t leaking anymore. 

Jaskier’s heart jumped and his belly flushed with heat as he studied the toned, naked body. Immediately he felt bad, Jaskier knew it was him who had done this to the witcher.

Flashes of Geralt entered his mind, warm and glistering below him, as Jaskier had taken him, trusting into him hard. Pumping him full of his seed and sating his own lust. In the belief that Gerald couldn’t break, how wrong he had been.

He, Jaskier, no one else had created this situation. He had done this to Geralt, and his stomach turned at the knowledge that the witcher had been forced to give birth alone in a forest.

Jaskier collected his courage; he placed a palm on the witcher’s hip, but Geralt did not react.

‘So, I was thinking we should name her Crisanta or Forsythia,’ Jaskier tried. It didn’t warrant a reaction, so Geralt might already have decided a name for her, he just hadn’t divulged it.

Jaskier peaked into the small crib; the babe had fallen asleep again. Her sleepy narrow eyes was closing, and she looked comfortable in her wool and linen swaddle.

Her little cheeks had become full and rosy, and the wild white tuff of hair on the head dropped softly around her like a halo.

Geralt, however, looked worse, hollow cheeks. Too thin. Jaskier moved his palm upwards to the witcher’s upper arm. Geralt had always been hot to the touch, now his skin was cold and clammy.

The witcher didn’t react to the contact, and he still didn’t reach for his sword.

‘Geralt, eh, not to decide on anything, but don’t you think you should wear a cover?’ Jaskier scanned the room for a blanket, before picking up a gray woolen one, discarded on the floor.

Pulling it over Geralt still just looking into the blank air. Suddenly the witcher reached out a sturdy hand to hold Jaskier’s wrist in a firm grasp.

Fierce yellow eyes, staring into Jaskier’s.  
‘Dandelion, please do not leave,’ he begged, more like a hope than an actual command.

‘Eh, sure? I am not leaving.’ Geralt slumped back again.  
Jaskier looked at the babe again, sleeping. He was also tired after the last days on the road; so eager to return to the witcher, Jaskier had slept only a few hours.

Sliding his doublet off, kicking off his boots, and slid into the bed behind the hard icy body.

Moving first a hand under the cover to rest on top of Geralt’s muscled upper arm, and when that didn’t meet resistance, he slipped the entire arm over. Finally, he crawled under the blanket himself.

Geralt sank into him, his muscles relaxed as Jaskier pulled him closer. And Jaskier put a light kiss between his shoulder blades under the gray wool blanket.

The other man eased his breathing, and the labored sound transformed into deep breaths as he slowly warmed.

Jaskier was certain that the witcher had fallen asleep when he said.  
‘Don’t leave me again.’ So low that Jaskier almost couldn’t hear it. Jaskier placed another kiss on Geralt’s neck and eased himself towards the muscled back.

He stroked away tangled white hairlocks, both for the benefit of himself and for Geralt.

‘Hmm.’ 

The witcher pulled away from him to roll to his back. Large callous fingers cupped Jaskier’s face, Geralt let his hand run upwards into Jaskier’s hair.

He studied Jaskier with an expression impossible to read.  
Suddenly the witcher bent over him and placed a soft kiss on the bard’s lips, stroking his cheek with a thumb.

The white hair hung in lumps around his face in.

Jaskier’s hands opened and closed idly while he kissed back, not knowing what to do with them. Geralt mouth was soft, and the bard parted his mouth to deepen the kiss.

He settled on clutching the sheets, his knuckles going white.

***

It was midmorning when Jaskier awoke, cozy under the blanket before he blinked. Next to him, Geralt sat. Jaskier realized what had woken him. It was the baby. She was in Geralt’s lap, crying. Desperate yellow eyes, with a dash of red mixed in, met his.

‘I don’t know how to make her stop,’ the witcher pleaded. The uncertainty pained Jaskier, pushing himself from the warm bed, crawling to sit next to the witcher and the babe.

‘Have you fed her?’ Jaskier asked. It appeared to be a yes. He scooped the infant from the witcher’s arms, relieved that he didn’t get impaled by a sword, Geralt’s arms just relinquished the child with assuagement.

Standing up, the stone tiles were freezing against his bare feet. The infant’s face was red and puffed, and she was crying inconsolable. Jaskier bounced her while holding a hand behind the child’s tiny head.

Taking a turn again on the floor. The warm bundle softened into him. The wail wore off.

‘See, Geralt, she just needed a little walking,’ Jaskier said happily when the crying decreased.

The witcher didn’t move; he looked sick again.  
‘I hope you are not in too much pain?’ Jaskier tried, Geralt had a tendency to downplay his injuries.

‘Hmm.’  
‘Okay, really that wasn’t an answer, I will take that as a “yes” then.’ Jaskier kept walking around with the infant. Casting glances at Geralt, curled up on the bed. Silent, yellow eyes followed him around.

Possible it was not only physical pain. The witcher clutched his sword and his medallion with one hand.

‘So, have you come up with a name for her yet?’ Jaskier tried again, stopping holding her out from him. Her beautiful blue eyes observed him. He was trying to discern what a suitable name for her might be.

The witcher made a non-distinct sound.

‘Right, I take that as a no. She should have a name, something romantic, I am thinking Abyssinia, or Euphemia?’

The names didn’t look like they were taking.

‘I am going to get her killed,’ Geralt breathed, looking down. Jaskier stopped walking around with the girl.

‘What?’ The sudden admission confused him.

‘Don’t be silly, Geralt, of course, you are not going to get her killed. So, how about Juliana?’

The witcher didn’t reply. He just sat up and rolled to his feet. It was obvious that he was still in pain, his movements were clumsy and forced, and he had bare feet too.

So not Juliana, then.

‘Geralt.’ Jaskier put down the girl into her bed. Geralt put on his shirt, barefooted, hair loose and tangled around his head. Eyes flickering around the chamber, searching for the exit.

‘I will make sure mother Nenneke finds a wet nurse for her, when I leave,’ the witcher said, struggling to leave the room, limping, in pain.

‘Wait, Geralt, where are you going?’ Jaskier asked desperately. Casting a glance towards the sleeping girl.

Jaskier was so shocked that he didn’t follow him. Why would the babe require a wet nurse when she had Geralt?

***

Mother Nenneke stood in the doorway, leaning against it. She was studying Jaskier, who sat with the little girl resting in the crook of his arm.

Her skin was rosy and her white hair was perfect; their daughter was the most perfect mix of him and Geralt. The babe almost made him forget that Geralt wasn’t there.

Jaskier hummed the calmest song he knew about a bumble-bee that looked for flowers. Deciding that most of his repertoire should probably wait until she was older.

‘So, you do know appropriate songs.’

He looked up.

‘Coming from your that is almost a compliment, mother.’  
‘Don’t push it, bard,’ Nenneke warned. She moved a hand to caress the cheek of the tiny infant, curled on Jaskier’s chest.

‘How long can we stay here?’ Jaskier asked. The old priestess sat down on the bed next to them, sighing.

‘There is not a time limit for the witcher.’

‘Where is Geralt?’ Jaskier inquired.

‘He is at the stable. He might need more healing than the physical,’ she said. ‘Even if I still dislike you, he needs you.’  
‘I don’t know, first he wanted me to go, then he asked me to stay, and now he is leaving.’

Nenneke sighed.

‘He is scared.’  
‘Geralt doesn’t get scared.’   
‘All parents are scared.’ It was a statement, not open for discussion.

At least the witcher couldn’t leave before getting his boots and silver sword. The sword was on the table together with his armor. But else it would be likely that Gerald would just leave them, if he really believed that it would be best for their daughter.

And he probably assumed that.

***

Geralt was grooming Roach, while standing barefooted in the straw bedding of the stable, sleeves rolled up, making even stroke with a handful of hay on Roach’s side.

Pretending not to see Jaskier, he looked worn down, tired, mumbling something incoherent to the horse, before for a moment leaning over her. He had noticed Jaskier; the witcher was just not acknowledging it.

The muscles in his mouth tensed as he supported his forearm on Roach’s back, refusing to look back towards Jaskier.  
‘I am leaving.’

Jaskier cleared his throat.  
‘Don’t you think little Candelaria will miss you?’

Geralt halted grooming the mare and stared back with a protesting facial expression.

‘That is a very unidiomatic name.’

‘Well, you haven’t given her a name. So, I am giving her one.’   
Geralt must have realized that Jaskier was not serious with the name. He looked back towards Roach and began currying her again.  
‘Hmm.’

Jaskier sighed.  
For a moment before Jaskier ceded, turning around, he was certain that Geralt whispered. something.

‘Aster, I would like to name her Aster.’ 

‘I still prefer Juliana.’

‘We are not naming her Juliana.’

Jaskier just hummed and went back to hide some boots and a silver sword.


End file.
